The Lady in the Tower

by Karen Hawkins

  Thornton grasped the boy’s shoulder and, with a twist, locked it back into place. It was over in a matter of moments. Toby barely had time to cry out at the sudden, wrenching pain and the deed was done. Jane had to admire the clean efficiency of it all.

  Toby, on the other hand, fainted. Considering all that remained left to be done, Jane was thankful for the small favor.

  “He’ll choke on that sweet,” Richard said.

  Jane tilted Toby’s head to the side and the candy fell out.

  “You used the candy to take his mind off his pain.” Richard nodded. “Clever.”

  Jane smiled. “You’re not the only one with a few tricks in his bag.”

  “Apparently not.” Richard grinned. “Ah, here’s Sam.”

  Sam maneuvered the landau beside them, effectively keeping traffic and onlookers from interfering. She closed her bag. “Your clinic, I presume? It’s closer.”

  “That does seem the sensible choice.”

  She nodded. “How is your leg? Can you lift the child?”

  Using his cane, Richard stood. “Of course.” He leaned the cane against their landau and then bent and lifted the child in his arms.

  “Hmm,” she muttered, taking great delight in turning his own habit against him. He limped to the door just as Sam opened it.

  Jane gathered up their respective bags, collected his forgotten cane, and climbed inside.

  Chapter 5

  A few days later, Jane sat at her desk, pen in hand. Her presentation was less than a fortnight away, and she still was nowhere near finished with it, let alone prepared to share her theories with London’s medical community.

  As she sat there, ink drying on her pen once again, one thing was perfectly clear—her lack of preparation was all the fault of one Sir Richard Thornton. She couldn’t stop thinking about the man. When she tried to think about her paper and her coming presentation, all she could see was his face. When she tried to stress the steps of her experiments, she remembered the grace of his hands as he set Toby’s fractured bones.

  Why can’t I stop thinking about him? Perhaps because he continues to confound me at every turn? She’d wanted to think him arrogant and aloof, interested in medicine only as a way to gain riches, and yet without thought for his own safety or glorification, he’d sprung into action when a small boy was injured.

  Adding to her confusion was that she’d discovered his offices were in Cheapside, on the edges of the East End, rather than in Town proper. Hardly the location for a physician intent on garnering a wealthy clientele. The office itself had been a messy amalgam of old newspapers, scientific journals and scholarly articles. The clinic, on the other hand, had been scrupulously neat and clean, stocked with enough medical tools and equipment that Jane had found herself nearly drooling.

  But that hadn’t been the best part. That had come later, after she’d stitched the gash in Toby’s forehead. While Thornton set the boy’s broken bone, she went to the tools of her trade: scalpel, needle and suture. Under Thornton’s watchful gaze, she’d stitched the gash closed. Afterward, as she washed up, Thornton measured her handiwork.

  He took his time checking the suture before finally speaking. “Remarkable. I doubt he’ll have much of a scar, if any. The stitching is impeccably small.” He looked at her in what could only be called wonderment. “Where did you learn to do that? I’ve seen your father’s work and it was nowhere near as precise.”

  The praise warmed her considerably and she said with a mischievous grin, “Perhaps I’ll show you one day.”

  “You must,” he’d replied.

  Pleased, she’d asked to accompany Richard as he went to find the boy’s father, but on this point he remained absolutely unequivocal. “It’s not a safe place. Besides, one look at you and the poor man will surely think his son dead.”

  She followed his gaze and grimaced. Blood covered the front of her pelisse, and her skirts were caked with mud and muck from the streets. “Very well,” she conceded. “I trust you will keep me informed of Toby’s progress.”

  “Of course.” And then, without another word, Sir Richard had asked Sam to drive her home. The silence had been heavy and awkward, Richard’s face stern as if his thoughts were far from pleasant. As he’d handed her into the carriage, she’d thought he was about to finally say something, but he merely bade her an abrupt good night.

  In the two days that had passed, he’d kept his promise and had sent a note each morning outlining their patient’s progress. He’d given nowhere near the detail she’d wanted, but from Thornton, a short note was probably tantamount to an epic. She could not fault his ability; Thornton was an excellent physician. He had the bedside manner, however, of Genghis Khan.

  And yet none of his notes had mentioned her, or how well they’d worked together, or anything personal. For some reason, that pained her.

  Swallowing back frustration, Jane dutifully turned her attention back to the task at hand: a conclusion for her article. Consigning Richard Thornton to the devil, she took a sip of tea that had gone cold, and delved back into her writing.

  A full hour later found her no closer to a resolution. She was on the verge of pulling out her hair when Jennings arrived with an announcement she had morning callers. Jane jumped to her feet. “Finally! I thought he would never co—I mean, of course, thank you, Jennings.” She hurried to the mirror over the fireplace, where she grimaced to see her hair. As she fixed it, she said, “Who came with Sir Richard? Is it a small boy with his arm in a sling? Toby must be feeling much better if he’s up, although I shall tell Thornton how risky such a thing is.”

  “My lady, it’s not Sir Richard at all, but Her Grace and Lady Tyndale.”

  Disappointment poured through Jane and she had to fight to keep a smile on her face. “Oh! How lovely of them to visit.”

  A curious look on his face, Jennings bowed. “If Sir Richard visits, I shall tell you at once.”

  Jane nodded and allowed the butler to open the door to the sitting room. “Thank goodness you’ve come,” she said in way of greeting. “I’m near my wit’s end.”

  “Oh?” Kat said. “Whatever for?”

  Briefly, Jane explained her conundrum, but left out the part about Richard Thornton.

  “Perhaps you simply need a fresh perspective,” Catherine offered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think the duchess is suggesting an outside consult,” Kat said.

  “Outside consult?” Jane frowned. “You mean with another surgeon?”

  “Yes, I’m sure a surgeon would do,” the duchess continued in a thoughtful tone. “But maybe a physician would be even better.”

  Disquiet settled over Jane. “I don’t think that would be—”

  “Yes,” Kat continued. “A physician would be just the thing. Someone who would approach the subject in an entirely different matter altogether, and offer you that new perspective.”

  Catherine nodded once, as if the matter were now settled. “If you asked, I’m sure Richard would offer you his aid.”

  Jane caught Catherine’s use of his given name; no longer was he Sir Richard or even Doctor. Now he was simply Richard. When did that happen? “Catherine, when did you last see Richard?”

  “Yesterday. He admitted that he quite admired your ability in dealing with that street urchin.”

  “Yesterday. That’s interesting, for he hasn’t bothered to show his face here. I asked him to keep me informed on the progress of our patient, and oh yes, he sent two notes – ridiculously short notes – but nothing more than that.”

  Catherine and Kat exchanged glances. “Perhaps he’s been busy,” Kat offered.

  “I’m sure he has been,” Jane managed. The bounder! He couldn’t bother to stop and see her—to keep her informed of Toby’s progress, of course—yet he’d made time to see Catherine, who wasn’t even his patient, but hers!

  Or . . . Her gaze narrowed on her friend. Maybe Thornton had called on Catherine for another reason? A twinge of somethi
ng Jane was loath to name flicked through her. Was Catherine more than a patient to Thornton? Even as the thought formed, she dismissed it.

  The duchess sighed. “Don’t look like that! He only called because I asked him to.”

  “You—But why?”

  “Because I’d heard about this urchin, you know. Everyone is talking about it, and I wished to hear what happened directly from the horse’s mouth, and you’ve made no effort to say anything, so—” Catherine shrugged. “I sent a note to Sir Richard and asked him to come by.”

  “And he came? Just like that?”

  “Well . . .” Catherine twisted one of her rings about her finger. “He might have thought I was ill. The note was a bit vague.”

  “Ah.” Well, that explained it, then. Despite herself, a rush of relief made her sigh.

  Kat leaned forward. “You weren’t jealous, were you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She forced a laugh, but rubbed at the headache that had started behind her eyes. “You should have just sent for me; I would have told you everything.”

  “Yes, but we knew you were working on your presentation,” Catherine said. “Are you finished?”

  “Sadly, I’m not even close.”

  They chatted a bit longer, and soon the duchess rose gracefully to her feet. “I’m afraid we must be on our way. I’m introducing Katelyn to the Ross family. They have two daughters on the verge of coming out and have expressed an interest in having their portraits done.”

  “She’s hoping I secure more commissions. So am I, truth be told.” Kat grimaced. “If I’m to keep Lilly, then I’ll need funds to hire a barrister should Amelia try to win her from me.”

  Catherine lifted a dark blonde brow, every inch a duchess. “Your mother in-law is of no import. Have I not told you to leave the matter to me?”

  Kat smiled. “And I appreciate it, really I do. But you don’t know how crazy Amelia can be.”

  “Nyet, she does not know how crazy I can be.”

  Smiling, Jane saw them to the door. After they’d left, Jane was left feeling lower than when they’d arrived. She sighed. There was nothing for it, but to return to her desk and the blank pages that mocked her.

  Meanwhile, outside on the portico, the duchess and Katelyn shared a look. “What do you think?” Kat asked.

  “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  “Will she ask him to help with her presentation?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I think we planted the idea, which is all we can do.” The duchess glanced back at the townhouse. “Now, we must let the tarot lead the way.”

  “The tarot.” Kat gave her friend a speculative look. “What card did the deck choose for Jane?”

  “I cannot say, for it is hers and not ours.”

  “Can you at least tell me what it portends?”

  The duchess smiled and led the way down the walk. “That, my dear, is for Jane to find out.”

  * * * * *

  Luncheon was long since finished; the correspondence read and answered. Late afternoon light marched inexorably across the library floor, and still Jane was no closer to finishing than when she’d started early that morning. The pages, woefully blank, stared back at her, almost daring her to put ink to the emptiness. Setting her jaw, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and . . . nothing but a glob of black ink splotched the page. Disgusted, she threw down the pen, scattering a bit more ink in a fine spray of dots.

  This shouldn’t be so difficult. Her point was simple enough: bend the surgical needle along a fifteen-degree curve to allow for easier suturing with lesser trauma to the patient. She’d tried different angles herself, working to find a balance between efficiency, ease of use and impact to the patient’s flesh. Granted, a pig’s skin wasn’t precisely the same as a person’s, but it was near enough to make no difference to her experiments.

  She smiled to herself. If Richard Thornton could see the number of hogsheads she’d practiced her suturing technique on over the past years, he’d be shocked. Not that he ever would find out, of course. Her father had suggested use of the swine at first, since women weren’t allowed to cut on cadavers at the Royal College. But it took practice to truly master the technique, and so he’d suggested using porcine heads instead. Though gruesome, it had worked beautifully.

  Over the years, they’d ordered so many whole hogs from the butcher that Mrs. Simms came to believe that the family had a penchant for pork dishes. Through that time, Jane and her father had eaten pork pies, ham steaks, rashers of bacon, pork loins, blood pudding and sausages so much that the smell of cooked pork even now made her a bit queasy. And late at night, when the staff was asleep, Jane would practice her skill with her needle, always under her father’s watchful eye.

  It had all been worth it, too. Even Sir Richard had to admit her skill, a simple statement she treasured far more than she should.

  She looked down at the blank paper before her and began to idly connect the inkblots. Kat and the duchess had suggested that Jane approach Thornton for assistance with her article. “I don’t need advice,” she told the blotted paper. “What I need is inspiration.”

  Still, she couldn’t help but admit that it would help her clarify her thoughts if she could discuss the contents with someone who knew the subject matter. Someone like Sir Richard Thornton.

  Her thoughts continued to spin, sharpening the ache that had ebbed and flowed all day behind her eyes. She was massaging her temples, when a knock sounded at the library door. Ah, tea. “Come in,” she called, grateful for the distraction.

  Jennings opened the door. “Sir Richard Thornton, my lady.”

  And suddenly, there he was; large, smiling, and impeccably dressed. She had to admire the way the cut of his black superfine coat was perfectly tailored to his tall, broad-shouldered frame. The starkness of his coat made the white of his linen that much brighter, his gray silk cravat tied simply but elegantly. She felt rumpled and disheveled by contrast.

  She rose to her feet. “Ah, um, good afternoon.” She came around the desk, noting how the library somehow seemed smaller with him in the middle of it.

  “Good afternoon.” He cut her a bow, his gaze flickering to her desk. “I apologize for disturbing you. I can leave if you wish.”

  She followed his gaze to her sheaves of ink-spattered foolscap. “Oh, ah, no, that’s nothing.” She scooped up the paper and stuffed it unceremoniously in a drawer. “Just something I’ve been working on.” The paper caught on something as she jammed it inside. She pushed her hand in the drawer, only to slide something else out. Before she could catch it, an opened envelope fluttered to the carpet.

  “Allow me.” He stepped closer to retrieve it, using his cane for balance as he bent. He offered the envelope to her.

  She looked at it, recognizing the broken seal. Ah, Catherine’s tarot card. “Thank you.” She returned the pesky envelope to the drawer, only then noticing the ink stains on her fingers. With a mental curse, she felt for the handkerchief in her pocket and tried to rub the ink away. A futile cause to be sure, made only more ludicrous by the fact that the handkerchief she used was his. She’d never had the chance to return it, and the linen had become an odd sort of talisman for her. But if he should see she still had it . . . She balled it up quickly and stuffed it back into her dress pocket.

  Turning, she found him right beside her. He wasn’t crowding her per se, but Jane felt as if she’d been backed to a wall. The spacious library now seemed cramped and tiny. Sudden nerves had her shift aside. “H-How is your leg? I think I may have something that will help the muscle of your calf if you’d be interested.”

  Richard found his gaze locked on her lush lips. Anything else she might have said became utterly lost upon him, for as soon as she mentioned his calf, all his faculties seized. Unbidden came the immediate image of her calf, which he could only imagine would shape to his hand. In his mind’s eye he could see her, almost feel the warm suppleness of her skin as he slid his hand up her leg to the petal softness of her inne
r thigh. Beyond that would she be wet for him or—

  “What do you think?”

  His hand jerked as if he’d just been slapped. What had she been saying to him?

  She looked at him expectantly. Clearly she awaited an answer of some sort, but he had absolutely no idea where the conversation had gone. Clearing his throat, he cast about for something innocuous in way of reply. “Ah, certainly.”

  She brightened and Richard had a terrible feeling that he’d just agreed to something.

  His premonition turned to certainty when she added, “We can try it now, if you’ve time.”

  Try what? Thoughts of her naked, in his bed, writhing under him came to him in way of answer. Somehow, he knew that wasn’t what she had in mind, more’s the pity.

  When he didn’t answer immediately, her gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong, Sir Richard? Afraid?”

  That rankled. “Of course not.”

  “Excellent. This way, please.” She led the way from the room and, with his curiosity – and other things – aroused, he followed. Perhaps his fantasy of her taking him to her bed wasn’t so far-fetched. After all, she was the Wicked Widow, was she not? Anticipation warred with an eagerness he hadn’t felt since he’d been a younger buck. His body was already loping ahead of his brain despite his best attempts at reining himself in.

  But when she passed the staircase that led to the upper rooms, a bit of his ardor cooled. Where were they going?

  She turned down a corridor to draw up before a closed door. “I appreciate that you’re allowing me to do this. Most physicians wouldn’t give it a try.”

  “I am not ‘most physicians.’”

  She smiled, her eyes bright. “So I’m learning.”

  Something thumped hard in his chest. God, she was stunning.

  “Come along then.” She opened the door and ushered him into a room free of the usual accouterments and bric-a-brac. Instead, the room harbored a plain settee, a stool, an apothecary cabinet and table, and glass cabinets filled with medical supplies. Dear God, what did I agree to?